Quiet reflection

There are not a lot of quiet moments on a ship with 630 undergraduate students, and there are not a lot of times when the community comes together.  Our largest room only holds half of us, so mandatory events like Logistical Preport are televised and people see them in the classrooms or in the cabins.  Last night, we came together in silence to say goodbye to a faculty member who died in Shanghai.

Like everything on board, the memorial service brought special challenges and was changed by the unique community in which we are living.  He died three weeks ago, and the ship sailed the next day, leaving his widow and one of our staff members behind to deal with the logistics of death in a foreign country.  Our psychologist rejoined us in Hong Kong as the wife (also a faculty member), flew home to the US for some time with her family.  With her brother, she rejoined us in Singapore, and we all came together to say goodbye to our colleague last night.

One of our local tour guides found us 800 perfect roses to cast upon the waters.  Two children of another faculty member provided piano and sax music and a student arranged some haunting melodies to play on her violin.  The Archbishop officiated in flowing white robes. 

(It's amazing what people bring with them.  But I guess if you're the Archbishop, you don't leave home without clerical robes.)

Wherever Arch goes, there is magic, and some of us are happy to listen to him order lunch, just to experience his presence.  There was absolute silence in the Union as we wait to hear what would he say on this occasion.  He is not an orator--he talks as if he is having a conversation--so we had to strain to hear.

"The minister was in the bedroom with his wife," Arch started, "and the wife said [falsetto voice], 'I can't sleep tonight, my dear.  Would you please tell me one of your sermons?'"

Should we be laughing at a memorial service?  Well, it's clearly a joke, right?  Is it ruder to laugh at a memorial service or to not laugh at a little joke?

It was classic Arch to knock us off balance a little.  It's a little hard to pull of self-deprecating when you're a Nobel Prize winner, but it's his way of saying, under these fabulous white bishop's vestments, I may or may not have pants I pull on one leg at a time.  This is not about me, folks, it's about us.

He went on to talk about how the ship becomes your home, and the people your family.  He talked about how shipboard life forces us to slow down and pay attention.  He talked about how we take care of each other, how we'd learned to take care of each other.

It was a good message for a group of young people who have little experience with death. My day to that point had been so hectic I needed the reminder—as well as the forced time to slow down and pay attention.  There was nothing groundbreaking about this.  It's probably Memorial Service 101.  Still, I love to see Arch in action.

I saw people putting their arms around each other and people clearly wrestling with grief.  A memorial service is a chance to take a breath and consider the losses in your own life, beyond the person being remembered.  I talked with several people who were revisiting their losses, on into the next day.

At the end of the service, we filed silently from fore to aft, then down to Deck 4, a deck that's off limits under normal circumstances.  The ship started a long, slow figure eight, a symbol for time stretching on infinitely.  Because we could see nothing but sea, the only evidence was the wake, a graceful arc from the stern, fading out of sight.

One by one, we threw roses into the ocean, which swallowed them up immediately.  The widow and her brother stood, greeting each of us and graciously receiving our inadequate condolences.

Our procession down the stairs was marred by a shout from the dining room.  Someone called for a doctor who is a passenger on board.  He ran up the stairs, followed by his wife, who is a nurse.  She looked stricken.  They had been on the scene when our colleague died, and were also longtime friends of his from Charlottesville.  Both had tried to resuscitate him in Shanghai, performing CPR until the ambulance arrived.  It seemed especially cruel to call on him again. 

My mind went immediately to the direst scenario.  Could this be happening again?  How could this be happening again?  The staff captain called a "Code Blue" medical emergency over the intercom.

As it turned out, it was not a life-threatening emergency.  A student had fallen and hit his head, probably fainting from dehydration.  There were three doctors in the dining room at the time.  (There is currently a delegation on board of residents and med students from Charlottesville, along with two board-certified docs, in addition to the two full time docs on the ship, so it's not unusual to have a doctor nearby.)

The community gathered on Decks 5 and 6

I ate dinner with the new widow on her first day back on ship.  Her husband had no history of heart disease, and he appeared fine right up until he wasn't.  He is in some of my pictures from that morning in Shanghai, just part of the crowd around the temple we were visiting.  Then suddenly gone. I was following him as he boarded the bus and collapsed that day, and now I was returning some things left behind in their hurried exit from the bus.

It's hard for me to accept that reality; I don't know how my friend is making it through the day.  She said to me she knows what she's doing.  Being on the ship keeps her from being at home.  I guess it's a more manageable hole in her life, to not-see her husband where he was for only a few short weeks instead of missing all the small things of their lives together.  She said the experience has given her some insight into caring for others, as she has seen how she has been cared for.

I've been struggling with this death since Shanghai.  It was a private moment on a crowded street in Shanghai, not my story, but important to me.  Thoughts of death triggering thoughts about life.  Thoughts about privacy and responsibility. 

I have now visited (we were told at preport) more countries than 95% of the people on earth will ever see.  In most of them, I have taken pictures and told stories, treating other people's faces and stories as if they were my own.  Watching death on a Shanghai street brought the participant and the observer together in a new way.  When the dying man is a friend, the details become intimate, and the responsibility becomes great.

In my "back home" life, I am privileged to have extraordinary people in my life.  I said to one of them, "I don't want to make this about me.  It shouldn't be about me," and I got the gentle response, "It's always about you."  Gentle, not to point out self-centeredness (which I have in abundance), but to say, "If you didn't make that connection to you, there would be nothing there." 

I hope those reading this will be equally generous in judging my telling of my connection to this story.  

Safety is no accident

Man overboard, port side!

It gets your attention, doesn’t it?

Having enjoyed the loop-de-loop of yesterday, we were treated to another one today, as the crew sprang into action for a drill which includes running, life jackets, blankets, medical kits, and lowering of the smallest life boat.  All very exciting.

The staff captain announced over the intercom, “For exercise only, for exercise only. Man overboard, port side. Report to stations, Team B.”  Suddenly people were everywhere, rushing to the port side on Decks 5 and 6.

Passengers, too.  Who could resist?  What a day to have left the camera in my room!  My desk is Deck 5, midships, port side, so I saw them rush by the door and then by the window.  We are, of course, not permitted to go out where the action is, but I got a report from a student who watched the drill from the dining room.

A dummy was thrown overboard, and a life preserver thrown after it.  But the dummy did not catch the life preserver, and so the launch was lowered to go help, loaded with medical supplies and blankets.  In the meantime, my source tells me, dolphins arrived on the scene to surround the fake guy.  Dolphins are very smart, and I’m sure they can tell the difference between a real drowning person and a dummy, but maybe they wanted to get in on the fun, too.

The ship made a tight turn (the tightest turn it can, anyway) and we felt it heeling as it went back to pick up the imaginary passenger.  Looking out the window, we could see a great arc of wake.

The ship has fairly frequent drills, most often a call to stations for evacuating passengers, (which is hard to simulate as we’re strolling around the decks).  It’s interesting to me to see how everyone has a part to play.  Today I saw line officers, cooks, and housekeepers, as well as people in white jumpsuits, blue jumpsuits, and khaki (uniforms whose inhabitants’ roles I cannot pinpoint).  Disaster can move more quickly than men in white jumpsuits, so practice is important. 

A new friend, Leah, who has sailed on several voyages, told me she wanted no part of the drill today.  She saw a man overboard rescue in 1999 on the Red Sea, and that was quite enough for her.  Late one night, a student decided he would like to “touch the sea,” and lowered himself over the rail with a life preserver.  The life preserver was swept away when he hit the water and it took a few hours to rescue him.  By that time I suppose he had sobered up.

I was surprised not to find more documentation of this online.  Here’s an amazingly offhand account from the Executive Dean of that voyage, and a third hand report from someone who sailed on a subsequent voyage (almost to the bottom of the page.

The 1999 voyage was a different ship and a different sponsoring university.  Not that we don’t have our share of drunk students making poor choices, but I thought the disclaimer was only fair.  I am confident that the crew then was just as concerned with getting everyone back safely as we are.

Tomorrow is Burma.  Venomous snakes, parasitic worms, and a river so shallow they are dredging it for our arrival.  But so worth it. 

Spontaneous parade

Searching for pictures for the last post, I discovered this one, taken on a side street in Ho Chi Minh City.  Four kids having a spontaneous dragon parade in honor of the new year.  Some pretty impressive drumming, too.

Hand work

With this voyage comes many opportunities for self-discovery and to try new things.  New food, new behaviors.  New constraints and disciplines on board, with limited resources.  New opportunities on land.

In Viet Nam, I got a manicure, my first ever.  My fat, stubby fingers with the ragged nails are not something I've been interested in pampering, but why not?  For three bucks (four with polish, evidently,  five with a generous tip), why not indeed.

I think you need to go with a friend, for a spa date.  The Saigon Spa is up two flights of stairs, and was deserted except for me.  They post a woman downstairs to reel in customers, and they call someone from a back room to do the manicure.  She did not speak a word of English.  Background music of American tunes from the 60's played on Vietnamese instruments.  The song I slow-danced to on my first date with the high school boyfriend who would become my husband (and later not my husband).  Music from the years of American escalation in Viet Nam, music that took me from innocence to outrage in my years from high school to graduate school.

There is a lot of solitary time in a manicure, soaking and drying.  There is a fine line between relaxing and depression when you are half way around the world, alone in the company of a thousand, in a country which tugs at your conscience and memory.  Who knew a manicure could be so powerful a thing?

On to Singapore, where I found a street artist offering henna tattoos.  "Trust me," he said.  "I am the best.  I do all these free hand!"  I have had bad experiences with "Trust me."  His photo album was impressive, but he makes no money from the lookers, only from the ones who do, ultimately, trust him. We negotiated a little on the size and style and he did a beautiful job.

Trusting was the easy part.  Keeping my left wrist from bending, and my arm from being bumped in the crowds of Chinatown was a challenge.  Using only my right hand the rest of the afternoon was a challenge.  I found some bargains worth pulling out my stash of USD for, which meant going into the bottom of my pack and going into the hidden zippered places of my wallet.  I found pictures worth taking one handed.  I found a 7-11 with Slurpees!  (Asia is full of 7-11s, but this is the only one I saw with Slurpees.

Back on the ship, I put the hem on my new skirt.  I sewed every stitch by hand, including overcasting the (6) seams so they won't fray.  No pattern.  There's a pocket inside to hold my passport.  I used my "graduate" scissors from the office.  Ideal for moms.  We don't let Jim use them.  He has to use the boy scissors.

Handwork score card

Manicure:  won't bother.  Just calls more attention to the dirt under my nails, and I'm not comfortable with having someone working on me.

Henna:  I discovered a common thinking pose is chin in my left hand, elbow on the desk.  Turns out this is ideal for showing off the tat as well.  Fun as long as it is temporary.  An Indian friend tells me it may darken in the days to come.  (The picture is of day 1, before the dye chipped off.  It's not that dark now.)

Skirt:  I like the skirt.  A pattern would have helped, as would a measuring tape, room to lay out the fabric, and an iron. Although it goes with all the t-shirts I brought, I reserve the right to cut it up for a shirt once I get home to my seven sewing machines.  Trying new things doesn't mean I can't go back to the old me.

In a tight place

After a few weeks of choppy seas and cooperative technology, today found us heading up the Strait of Malacca towards Myanmar at a leisurely pace with calm waters and a recalcitrant printer.

We are proceeding at a leisurely pace because we have time to kill.  Our itinerary shows us docking at 0800, but that’s been changed to 1400.  It has been tough on our Field Office people, who scheduled travel out of Yangon months ago.  Those people will have to leave the ship by launch (small boat) while the rest of us bide our time. 

The waters are calm because the Strait of Malacca is very narrow and shallow.  No room to build up waves.  They are also full of pirates, but no one seems overly concerned.  The children are hoping for Johnny Depp and the adults are hoping the pirates stick to commodities other than people.  Open waters tomorrow; in the meantime, it’s odd to be at sea with no rocking at all.  Doors stay where you put them, and no one goes flying off the treadmill.

Back at the office, my printer has shown a new side to its quirky personality.  In Singapore, it spontaneously stopped working again, and I left a note asking whichever IT person came back to duty to look in on it.  My first print request was five different jobs of labels for our alumni coordinator.  As with so many small jobs coming to me, I had to reformat, and the reformatting tools I enjoy at home were nowhere to be found.  MS Word, you are a fickle friend!  After reformatting 15 pages of labels separately and adjusting long addresses to fit (no, it’s no problem at all!  I am the cheerful one!), the first job of four pages came out printed on both sides of the page.

This is not possible!  My printer doesn’t print duplex.  For 7 weeks, my printer didn’t print duplex.  For anything over four pages, I had to print even pages first, then odd, or the pages came out stacked in reverse order.  Jobs with odd numbers of pages got an extra run through for the last page.  Since I have approximately as much room on my desk as the fold-down tray in front of the average airline seat, collating and stapling is a particular challenge.  So it was both a puzzle and a blessing to find my printer can print two sides of the page all by itself.  When set to “print one side only.”

My motto is “It’s always a good day to learn something new!”  Sometimes I say this through clenched teeth.  The choices for printing continue to be one side only and “manually print two sided,” which prints the odd pages and then has you run the paper through a second time to print the evens, which doesn’t work.  Clicking on “Advanced settings” revealed a “print both sides” option was checked.  So “print both sides” plus “print one side only” allows my printer to print in duplex.  And this is the new default setting, which is loads of fun.  If you add “print one page,” it still prints the entire multiple page job.  I had to create a new document to print the final page of labels. 

At the next opportunity to show off, the printer made four copies double-sided then jammed.  And jammed.  And jammed.  Jam on the left.  Jam on the right. 

Oh, how I have not missed my days peering at the inside of the printer at UVA, looking for new doors to open to reveal the stubbornly hidden jammed paper! 

Here, as there, there are diagrams that do not look like the printer in front of you.  Knobs to turn, doors to open, doors that will not open, doors that should not be opened.  Jams hidden behind the toner cartridge, jams visible but not accessible.  Jams that require you to go down on your knees, jams that require you to be eye level with the floor, jams that require you to wedge yourself into tight spaces. 

Yes, folks, we have them all!  And, reams of wasted paper while the printer rejams itself over and over. 

At 5:30, I pulled the plug, the forbidden last resort solution to the re-jam.  This is printer time-out, a chance for the printer to cool off and think about what it has done.  A chance for me, too, to come back to the puzzle with new focus after breathing some air not pungent with toner.  I was rewarded with a piece of paper stuck in a place heretofore unrevealed (these are notches on the belt of an administrative assistant, and despite what it seems, there is a limit to how many you can get) and a record run of 14 double-sided copies without a jam.  Maybe tomorrow we will be friends again.

One hidden blessing of the ship’s schedule is that working through meals is a poor option.  Get to a meal late enough and there’s nothing left.  Tonight I arrived in time for the voyage’s first photo-worthy sunset.  Everyone with a camera was crowded on the port side snapping away. 

It was not a surprise to me that our super efficient waiter had cleared away my unfinished dinner and drink, wiped off the table, and reset the chairs by the time I got back. The ship throws away 40 pounds of food a day, so why not my dinner as well? (New weight loss plan.)

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.  We’ll see.

Figuring out Singapore

The hop-on, hop-off bus:  it hits all the major tourist spots, it comes with a smattering of information about the city you're visiting and you can make unlimited stops.  Such a deal!  (And for just a little bit more, the promise of additional routes, or tickets to attractions.)

The map of Singapore given to us on landing was an advertisement for City Tours, and I succumbed. The ticket is good for 24 hours, which took me from 1 PM Wednesday to 1 PM Thursday.  It was only a few bucks more than a one-day pass on the subway, so I plotted a route and hopped on.

Snake-eye view of Singapore from the hop-on bus

Here are some interesting facts I learned about Singapore.

85% of Singaporeans live in public housing.  Unlike public housing in the US, this housing is comparable to private housing, and only about 30% cheaper.  A "four-room flat" in public housing can cost $250,000, and prices start around $75,000.  I don't know if that four rooms is a 2-bedroom apartment or whether the designation is four bedrooms.

25% of the land in Singapore is reclaimed from the surrounding ocean.

30% of shipping, worldwide, goes through Singapore.  They had better watch where they're reclaiming land from the ocean, because that strait is pretty narrow to begin with.  Beach Road is now downtown.  (So much for owning beachfront property!)

It is very expensive to own a car in Singapore, which is a traffic control strategy.  When you initially buy the car, you pay a tax in excess of 100% of the value of the car.  Then, you have to bid for the privilege of owning it, something that can add another $10,000 dollars.  That permit is granted for only ten years, then you have to bid for another one.  The permits are not transferable, so most people elect to buy a new car rather than reupping for ten more years with the old one.  Singapore exports most of its old cars to Japan, a reasonably close country where the steering wheel is on the right side of the car.  (What's the deal, island countries??  Is there an advantage to driving on the left?)

Another traffic control strategy in place in Singapore is the ERP, an automatic toll system that charges you as you go through checkpoints.  Essentially it's an EZ Pass, but specifically created to discourage people from owning cars, not to improve traffic flow.

Public transportation is cheap and efficient, although the toll structure discourages casual use.  Even on the buses, the fare depends on how far you are going, on whether the bus is air conditioned, on your age (for seniors) and height (for children).  Regular passengers swipe in and out to deduct the proper fare, but paying customers have to know what fare to pay.  The bus drivers do not enforce the zone system, however.  You can also get on at the rear door without paying, even when the bus is not crowded.  A couple of our students told me they had just learned you had to pay for the bus.  Even on the tour bus, I was discouraged from showing my ticket.  

The tour covered neighborhoods for four ethnic groups, the Chinese, Indians, Malaysians, and Arabs.  Historically, Singapore was laid out with neighborhoods assigned to ethnic groups, and these enclaves still serve as centers of the community, although there's no restriction on where people live.  

Civilian War Memorial

Singaporean society is deliberately multi-cultural, with four official languages (English, Mandarin, Malay, and Tamil).  The CivilianWar Memorial in the center of town (nicknamed the chopsticks), has pillars for Chinese, Indians, Mayalsians, and Minorities. (It's in memory of the people who died under Japanese occupation, which was brutal.)  

Unemployment is virtually nil in Singapore, and about one-quarter of the population is foreign, many of them guest workers. There is a controversial plan to bring in immigrants to have babies, since the birthrate in Singapore is too low to fund the social programs in place.  

The unemployment rate is officially 2%, but that includes people who are self-employed, so it's artificially inflated.  (Curious way to calculate it, I think.)

Finally, the Singapore Sling was invented at the Raffles Hotel, a beautiful and pricey property in the "civic" quarter of town.  My boss, Jim reports that it costs $28 now.  (Singapore dollars are $1.10 to $1.30 per American dollar, so it's definitely a pricey drink.)  I also did not try the classic chili crab in Singapore, since that costs around $30.  

End of lesson.  Next stop on the tour:  Burma.

War and Viet Nam

On my last day in Viet Nam, I went to the Mekong Delta on a trip organized by Semester at Sea.  Our guide, in his early 40s, talked a bit about how the war (they call it “the American War” ) affected his family.

His father was a South Vietnamese Army intelligence officer, working closely with the US government.  He was even brought to the US for training.  This worked out well for a while, but after Saigon fell in 1975, Hau’s father was sent to a re-education camp for 5 years.  Then the whole family was made to go work in the jungle for several more years.  The family’s house was seized as well.  It was a very hard time, and Hau remembers foraging for food.

When Hau came of age, his father advised him to avoid military service by running away, but Hau decided to fulfill his obligation.  He says the whole family would have faced prison if he hadn’t.  But his father was so upset by the decision that he disowned his son.

Hau finished his term of service and asked the government to give his father back his house.  He said, “I am a good man.  I have served my country, and this is all I ask.”  He pursued this for about five years until the government finally gave the house back.  Because of this, Hau was able to reconcile with his father.

I find this story very moving—and astonishing.  Hau’s persistence and his success amaze me equally.  Because of his father’s work for the US, three generations of his family are denied membership in the Communist Party, a huge impediment to economic success. 

The Vietnamese approach to the war seems to be, “it’s over, move on.” Certainly there are war museums, and the old news footage they show has a strong anti-American slant, but in the present, there’s no animosity towards Americans.  As Hau said, “Viet Nam is a small country.  We can’t exist on our own.  We have to get along with everybody.”

I was talking about this with one of our professors, who made this observation:  for me, there’s nothing between the Viet Nam war and my trip to Viet Nam.  Those are my only two points of connection to the country.  But for Viet Nam, the American War, destructive as it was, was only one of many wars.  Not their first, not their last.  Since then, they’ve invaded and they’ve been invaded.  There’s also a big element of civil war in that conflict.  The Americans spent a lot of time and money intervening, but we did not divide the country into two.  The South had benefitted from capitalism and many in that area worked willingly with the US.

Earlier in the week, I visited the Reunification Palace, which was the South’s government headquarters before and during the war.  It’s four floors plus a basement.  The top floor is a rooftop garden.  The three floors under that are largely ceremonial.  It reminded me of the Shogun’s Palace in Kobe (someday, perhaps I will write about that, too), with rooms for presenting credentials, and waiting, and being received by the President, the Vice President, or the First Lady.  A cinema, a room for gambling.  Several dining rooms and conference rooms.  A private apartment and a library/classroom.  In all three floors, there are only two for conducting what looks like business.  The President had an office (with a secret passage to the basement for a quick escape), and there’s a map room.

In contrast, the basement is a hive of radios and phones and teletype machines.  And maps.  While the President was in his chair on a raised platform receiving guests who sat in chairs with varying heights indicative of relative power, the Americans were in the basement, running the war.

It’s a jumble of images, not easy for me to sort out.

Water puppets in Saigon

Meanwhile, back in Viet Nam...

In our global society, sometimes it seems like there are few surprises.  Most everything I saw for sale in Japan or China or Viet Nam, I could also buy in the US (with the exception of foods).  My home town has lots of choices of ethnic food.  And people throughout Asia are driving the same cars, using the same cell phones, and listening to the same music as Americans do.

But I am told that water puppets exist only in Viet Nam.

I saw two different water puppet performances while I was there.  These pictures are from the theatre attached to the history museum.  They have an open air stage with rows of simple chairs, which give it a garden feel.  Before each little story, a woman gave us the plot line.  Fortunately, the plots are pretty simple to pick up, because I couldn't get onto the woman's wavelength.  Something about her intonation made it very difficult to tell she was speaking English.

The second show was at a fancy theatre, with a live orchestra and plush movie theatre seats.  I loved having the orchestra, which played a central role in commenting on the action, as well as providing background music.  But the juxtaposition of plush seats and a pond of water was jarring for me.  (I was asked to step in to lead a trip of students to dinner and the show; I am not becoming a water puppet junkie.)

Several of the stories were exactly the same at both theatres, which leads me to believe that they are beloved folk tales.  Here, the man and his wife argue, a cat comes to steal one of the ducks and causes mayhem.  In another, the man is fishing with a net and the wife the idea to fish with a basket.  The fish jump wildly, the woman finally catches one, and the scene ends with the man being overwhelmed by the fish jumping into his net.

All of this is accomplished by four (or six, in the larger theatre) puppeteers who are standing waist deep in the water.  You never see them until they come out at the end to wave and receive your applause.  The puppets are on long rods the color of the water, which you also do not see.  The dragons spit fire and water at each other, the fish jump, the swimmers do acrobatics and wind up making a tower.  It's very impressing stuff for eight hands and a few rods.

In America, puppets are generally for children.  (Ignore Avenue Q.)  In the rest of the world, they have a more central place in the culture and in religion.  In Viet Nam, they are literally making waves.

One Fine Day in Singapore

If this is Wednesday, this must be Singapore.

The pace of this trip is hard to keep up with, but there's really no mistaking Singapore for anywhere else. 

The ship terminal looks like a ship, sailing.

For one thing, the preport warnings are completely different.  Eat and drink anything you like.  The streets are safe at 3 AM, even for women walking alone.  If you lose your passport, someone is more likely to chase you down to return it than to sell it. 

However, there are plenty of warnings.

You can't enter the country with gum.  Or an apple.  Or a DVD.

Or a newspaper.

No jaywalking.  No spitting.  No criticizing the government or disparaging religious or ethnic groups.  (Comedy clubs must have a tough time here.) 

And here's one I hadn't heard of:  no outraging the modesty of a woman.  This is one that's landed quite a few Western men in jail here.  Modesty of Singaporean women can be outraged pretty easily, evidently.

All of this has earned Singapore quite a reputation.  There's a popular t-shirt calling it "A Fine City" and another, with appropriate iconography, for the "I-Fine."  (In Viet Nam, it was the "I-Pho," although the soup pho is pronounced "fa.")

As it turned out, I got over the urge to chew gum pretty quickly and got down to the business of seeing the sights.  Singapore is no sterile Disneyland of a city—there are far too many construction sites for that.  You don't see much litter on the streets, but there's still underwear hanging on the balcony. 

Singapore has grown tremendously in the last 30 years.  They have reclaimed land from the sea, and they have built up as well, with a very impressive skyline.  There are a lot of very unusual buildings, like this one, a ship stranded atop three skyscrapers. 

Marina Bay Sands Hotel and Casino

There's interesting use of color, rainbow hues everywhere. 

Hindu Temple in Chinatown

Buddha Tooth Relic Temple, also Chinatown

In a multicultural society, there are many religious paths, and I saw a couple of mosques, a couple of Hindu temples, a Buddhist temple, and several Christian churches of various sorts today.  The Anglican church has stained glass windows of three prominent white leaders.  (Perhaps this explains why it's been destroyed by lightning twice?)

In this mosque, the layer of tiny dark circles under the gold dome is the bottom of bottles.  The architect collected bottles, then sold them to raise money to build the mosque.  I gather this was like getting your name on a brick, but without names.

On the other mosque, which is in Chinatown, there was a sign wishing happy lunar new year to our neighbors.

Somehow, it works.

Aging Aquarius

Doc Micah started us off in Hawaii with “The Volcano Song,” a little ditty his children sang in preschool.  He got his three sons, ages 9-15, to sing it in front of an audience of 500 people, an impressive feat.  We had a parody of “Call me maybe” before Japan, sung by the Resident Directors, struggling to keep their footing as we fought our way through hurricane force winds.  (If we had one before China, it escapes me at the moment.)  Here, for your enjoyment, the words to “Malaria,” sung to the tune of “Aquarius.”

When the moon comes out in Vietnam
And nights are sweltering hot,
Then bugs shall rule the planet,
And all of us begin to swat! 

It is at dawn and dusk we think of malaria
Don’t let it scare-y ya
Malaria!
Malaria! 

Malarone and doxycycline.
Larium is not exciting.
Use your netting while you’re sleeping
Wear long sleeves while bugs are leaping
Use your DEET when skin’s revealing
Stay in at night!
Malaria!
Malaria! 

When the food is looking tasty,
And water seems so clear
Beware, it might be nasty
And mi-ight come out your rear! 

So in the dawn you might wake up with diarrhea-ea
Doc Mike will have to see-ee ya
Diarrhea! 
Diarrhea!

Sympathy is notwithstanding
Roommate not too understanding
Keep yourself up off the toilet
It is best if you can boil it
Wash your hands while on your pub crawl
And take pepto! Pepto Bi-ismol!
Pepto Bismol!
Pepto Bismol! 

The saloon turns to a party house.
And you and her have gone too far.
Be sure to use a condom,
And keep out of her boudoir! 

This is the time that you should think about STD’s
Not drink ‘til you’re on your knees
Delirious!
Precarious!
Hilarious!
Malaria!

Growing up, Aquarius (the end of January and beginning of February) was a big deal, with three birthdays, my parent’s anniversary, and Valentine’s Day, all packed into less than three weeks.  From far away Viet Nam, I send greetings today to my dear sister Ellen, who celebrates her birthday today.  XOXOXO

Watching the world go by

If you are big, you do what you want.

If you are small, you do what you can.

Everybody honks, but only once.

I waited for the bus for about half an hour today, watching the people and watching the traffic.  I find both fascinating.

Our guide told us yesterday that there are 3,000,000 motorbikes in Saigon.  There are 8,000,000 people, and half of them are children, so this adds up to a lot of motorbikes. 

Our guide, Huang, said his grandmother walked from the Mekong Delta (about 40 miles away) to sell her wares at market.  His father road a bicycle and he has a motorbike.  He hopes that his children will one day drive cars.

"No, no!" we said.  "Fight for public transportation!"  Saigon has no subways or light rail and not much of a bus system.  You see a surprisingly small number of bicycles, and they are almost always transporting senior citizens.  Most of the cars are taxis, transporting Western tourists.  More than 95% of the vehicles on the road are motorbikes.

It's hard to get a picture, because they are darting in and out of traffic.  Here are some verbal snapshots.

Helmets are required, but there does not seem to be any standard for helmets.  I saw ones that looked like batting helmets for baseball, and others where the helmet was covered up by another kind of hat.  As with other laws, there are plenty of people who simply ignore the helmet law.

Since motorbikes serve as the family car, it is common to see young children on them.  Children stand in front of the driver, sit between their parents, and are held in their parents' arms.  Today, I saw several motorbikes tricked out with actual chairs for little ones.  They are real chairs, however, not seats designed for motorbikes.  Those are nonexistent.

Both men and women commonly wear masks.  You see a lot of masks on motorbike passengers, but far fewer on pedestrians, unlike Japan and China, where as much as 25% of the population is wearing surgical-style masks.  Women also commonly wear hoodies or a kind of scarf/hat combination that covers their face and front.  I have seen several children with mosquito netting (though I have not seen nor been bitten by a single mosquito, despite my refusal to use DEET).  Very young children are often completely wrapped up in blankets.

Motorbikes are used for transporting goods home, and for operating mobile businesses.  They might have a big cardboard box strapped to the back, but I didn't see motorbikes with storage built into the design.  And none pulling trailers of any kind.

On the way back to the port, the bus driver came to an intersection, gave a blast of his horn, and turned left on a red light, blending smoothly into cross traffic.  Honking, in addition to expressing your opinion, can signal intent.

Niche publication

In a store crowded with tourist knickknacks, I saw a stack of these coffee table books.  A quick look inside confirms that the entire book is pictures of babies suckling.

Which I am all for.  Which is particularly important in countries where uncontaminated formula and clean water are both hard to come by.

I support breast feeding in public.  I support breast feeding anywhere the hungry baby happens to find a willing breast, even if that breast does not belong to the baby's mother.  I am liberal on the subject of breast feeding.

I don't find the book objectionable.  I just find the subject matter limited.  Babies are pretty darn cute doing other things, too.

Saints and sinners

I’ll see your Saint Ralph and raise you a Victor Hugo

We Unitarian Universalists are sometimes characterized as believing anything we want to, which is unfair and simplistic, but it is certainly true that we have an eclectic set of beliefs, gathered from religions traditions throughout the world, science, nature, direct experience, and a couple more sources that you can look up if you care to at uua.org.  Ralph Waldo Emerson figures prominently in the American history of the movement, and we fondly call him St. Ralph.

In Viet Nam, I have been introduced to a new religion called Cao Dai, the Esperanto of world religion, founded in 1926, it has between 3 and 6 million followers (depends on who’s counting), virtually all of them in Viet Nam or in communities of Vietnamese immigrants.  Yesterday, I visited the CaoDai temple in Saigon and watched the noon service.

So far on this trip, I have been visited religious sites and services for Buddhists, Moslems, Christians, and now, Caodaists.  I find it interesting and unsettling in equal parts.   As we peer into a chamber reserved for believers, or take pictures of believers engaged in the practice of their religion, I feel acutely what it means to intrude on something holy.  Like so many other things, I view religious sites through the lens of my own experiences and beliefs.  I try to understand the place of the religious practice in the lives of these believers, but I’m largely unsuccessful in putting aside my own skepticism.  Still, it’s particularly interesting to chart the course of a new religion.

Cao Dai is often presented as a made-up religion, an amalgamation of Islam, Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Daoism, and social progressive thought.  If everyone believed the same thing, there would be no more wars.  Its roots, however, are in divine revelation—this all appeared to the founder in a dream.  But the world is full of cults whose founders claim divine revelation.  Which Kool-Aid is safe to drink?  When does a cult become an established religion?  (In this case, 1997, when the government of Viet Nam allowed its practice.)

Fitting in all the beliefs is no easy task.  The symbol for Cao Dai is the left eye, which is the eye of God, seeing directly to the heart.  In the creation story, there is one god, who creates the Mother Buddha, who is (like the one god) male, but in charge of the female side.  This makes equality of the sexes difficult, and in fact, the sexes are side by side, but clearly separate, in the service.  Women cannot be Pope here, either. 

Yes, there is a Pope and a Holy See.  But no competition for Benedict’s successor, I think.  There is also genuflecting and crossing oneself three times, and kneeling with touching forehead to the floor, and repetitive prayer chants and gongs.  Music carries the prayers to Heaven, where God lives, and where you will eventually live, too.

The temple is a colorful place.  The worshippers were almost all dressed in white robes, but the number of shoes by the door suggests they are not monks who live and work in the compound.  We were told the ones with white headdresses are in mourning (mourning periods are long, explaining the large numbers of mourners). 

As we left, I saw this picture of the three saints,  Sun Yat Sen, Victor Hugo, and a poet laureate of Vietnam in the 16^th century, Nguyen Binh Khiem.  No matter how I parse it, that one seems arbitrary.  I heard today at breakfast that Thomas Jefferson is also revered (of COURSE he is) and Joan of Arc in an important figure.  So it must have been hard to pick just three.

I would like to be more open to this religion.  I like the idea of finding commonalities among religions, of unifying people, of working towards love, equality, justice.  I root for the underdog in many things.  But the choreography of yesterday’s service might as well have been the Hokey Pokey.

Which is, after all, what it’s all about.

Picture Perfect

The muddy water and drab buildings en route were poor representatives of the Saigon we got to see today.

The official name is Ho Chi Minh City, but Saigon is commonly used.  Although the State Department's CSI warns that blogs critical of the government can land you in prison, the government is not much in evidence on the streets of this city, which seemed today much more interested in having a good time than in asserting itself politically.

We are a couple of days into Tết, the new year's festival.  The streets downtown are a blaze of color, with flowers everywhere, of the real and the artificial kind.  Nguyen Hue street is closed to traffic, with block after block of floral displays, like the Rose Bowl parade standing in place.

Many of the stores are closed.  This is a time to dress up and greet friends, not to make money. All along Nguyen Hue, families are strolling from display to display, stopping to have their pictures taken.  Many are in traditional clothing, others are dressed in Western party clothes, and some are in everyday clothing, but cameras are everywhere.

I know it's rude, but it's impossible not to stare at the spectacle, and I surreptitiously take lots of pictures of the people taking pictures.  I love the way they strike poses, as if the camera is a novelty in their lives.  

One group of five people is taking turns.  One person shoots the other four, then another rotates out to be the photographer.  As I often do, I approach and sign to ask, would they like me to take a picture of the whole group?  Yes, please!

I hand the camera back and stroll on.  A moment later, two of them approach me and sign they want to have me in their picture.  They put me in the middle, and each of them makes the V for peace sign as we smile for the camera.  (It's ubiquitous.  I have seen it in Japan, China, and now Vietnam.  Wherever tourists take pictures, they make the V.  No waves, no thumbs up; always the V.)

I imagine the slide show.  "We couldn't figure out what this American lady was saying.  Why did she want to take our picture?  But she was offering to take a picture for us.  Isn't that sweet?"

Later, the favor is returned.  I am taking pictures of the streets lit up, and a vendor comes over and gestures at my wrist.  He's not grabbing at it; he obviously doesn't want my cheap K-mart watch.  He reaches for my camera strap and makes it clear he thinks I should carry it on my wrist.  Lady, you're asking for trouble standing that near to the street without securing your camera better.

Just a simple kindness to a stranger.  Life is full of sweet moments today.

Stepping out in Saigon

During the preport, our Executive Dean (Tom) demonstrated the proper way to cross the street.  Walk purposefully and without hesitation into traffic, and it will flow around you.  Do not change speeds, and do not, under any circumstances, stop. 

This is, in fact, the only way to cross a street.

Traffic does not stop for crosswalks.  Traffic lights are rare and considered optional.  Remaining in the actual street is also optional, as far as we could see.  Motorbikes came up quite randomly on the sidewalk, as well as on streets that were putatively closed to traffic. 

Kerri and I headed into the city around three, which is probably the hottest part of the day.  Traffic was very light.  We had been warned by the port agent that everything was shut down for Tết.  No stores, or banks, or restaurants would be open.  Everyone was home (in the countryside) for the holidays.

It turned out there were plenty of people around.  Families were out strolling and posing for pictures.  Lots of shops and restaurants were closed, but there was plenty to see and do.

We spent most of our time on streets that were closed to traffic for a book fair and the flower market.  But as we explored a little further, and the evening cooled off, the traffic got crazy.  It reminded me of summer in resort areas in the States, where teens parade in their cars.  Thousands of young people on motorcycles, two, three or more to a single cycle, strutting their stuff. 

We got pretty good at the crossing routine.  At first we hitched ourselves to the locals, but then we branched out on our own.  The key is to just keep going.  Hesitate and you confuse the drivers, who are compensating for your speed.  It is like stunt driving in car commercials, all perfectly choreographed.  

And it looks a lot easier than it is.